That We Must Forget
by Minx2
Summary: Denethor and Imrahil share a few conversations and much more during a summer in Dol Amroth and forty-three years later as the War of the Ring rages in Gondor. Rated for implied slash
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien

**Warnings:** Implied slash 

**Summary:** Denethor and Imrahil share a few conversations and much more during a summer in Dol Amroth and forty-three years later as the War of the Ring rages in Gondor

**A/N:** The timeline changes very frequently, so I've added dates with each change, which will hopefully prevent any confusion. All dates are as per Appendix B, ROTK and HOME Vol. 12. Imrahil was born in TA 2955 and Denethor in 2930. That would make them 21 and 46 respectively at the year of Denethor's marriage in 2976.

This is quite short, but it's divided into parts to accommodate the POV changes. 

***********

Part 1 Minas Tirith, March 9, T.A. 3019 

He seemed to have suddenly aged. The eyes that had once looked alive now seemed weary. Those grey robs that had once glinted as the sun shining off the surface of the sea, were now a dull insipid shade. 

He looked at the lined face and the tired body of the Steward of the realm and tried to remember how the other man had looked all those years earlier. 

It felt as another time now. 

He had reconciled himself then to the turn of events for there had been no other course, and life had gone on for both of them; the summer all those years ago tucked away into a corner of his memory, to be brought out only on occasion - a special memory that caused nostalgia and hurt in equal proportions so that coping with it was particularly difficult. The wine cellar in his castle helped.

This was not the time though. Other, more important things needed his attention, rather than a memory that would remain nothing but that.

***********

_Dol Amroth T.A. 2987_

"You like to look at the sea," the voice was so soft, that he almost missed the words as they were spoken.

"Yes," he found himself responding.

"Mother says she misses the sea," his nephew told him.

"We all do who live by her waves," he said automatically.

"Is that why father does not like the sea?" like all children his nephew would sometimes make a sudden observation completely out of tune with the rest of their conversation. He was used to that, but the words he uttered hit him.

"He never speaks of it as mother used to," the boy continued, "And he would not come here with us."

The boys had come for barely a fortnight. His father had requested it of the Steward and Denethor had acquiesced with surprising quickness. He had been away at sea, but storm had forced him to return from the voyage sooner than planned, and so he found himself by his nephew's side on the ramparts of his father's castle by the sea. 

He knew the Steward would not come to Dol Amroth. And he knew it was not the sea Denethor disliked but that which it reminded him of.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien

Part 2 Dol Amroth, T.A. 2976 

It was a tiny cove, blocked from outside view by a rocky overhang. They were there often, on it's soft sands, letting the waves lap their feet. During the day, the sun shone serenely down on the little cove, its warm embrace happily welcomed. At night the moon shone gloriously over the deceptively calm waters bathing all in a pristine white light. 

"You gaze long at the sea today."

Denethor turned at the sound of the voice, contemplatively eyeing the young man stretched out beside him on the sand, his eyes closed and his tunic loosened. Reaching out a hand, he stroked his cheek gently, inciting him to open his eyes.

"Have I ever told you that your eyes remind me of the sea, so grey, so deep," the young man murmured gazing out of his own grey eyes into Denthor's.

"You are a poet, now?"

"Only after I met you last year, My Lord, only after I met you."

They had met the summer prior when Imrahil had accompanied his father Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth to Minas Tirith when Steward Ecthelion had requested their presence there. 

***********

Minas Tirith, T.A. 2975 

He had ridden in accompanied by a small troop of the Swan Knights on their grey horses, gleaming in their blue and silver attire, singing, a sight that never failed to attract the attention and awe of the people of Minas Tirith. Denethor stood on one of the balconies of the city then. He had seen the sight often before, and was therefore not very interested in it right then, but he still had to admit it was a fine thing to see. 

And then he had changed his assessment for his eye had fallen on one of the knights riding at the lead. Tall and slender and clothed in that same blue and silver, the young man, who looked to be no more than perhaps one score years, was glancing around him eagerly. He was obviously as interested in all he saw around him, as the people of the city were, in his troop.

His dark windswept hair hung away from his face, revealing fine features and grey eyes and had joined in the song the others were singing. Denethor took one glance at him and deduced that he was Adrahil's son. He could see the resemblance clearly.  He hadn't realised that the boy he had once seen many years ago while on a visit to Dol Amroth had grown up into such a fine-looking young man.

Fine-looking, he repeated to himself, realising with a start what he had said. He glanced back down, and continued to focus his attention solely on the young Prince, taking in the way he sat atop his horse, comfortably and gracefully. He was not surprised to find himself attracted to him. He had been attracted to young men before, and this one, he could not remember his name, was quite handsome after all. But, he was certainly surprised by the extent of the attraction he felt for him. It seemed to go much deeper than the meaningless romps he had had with one of his tutors or with the son of the Lord of Morthond. 

He wondered what the Prince thought of bedding another male.

His name was Imrahil, Denethor had found out, and on speaking to him, had discovered someone intelligent, quick-witted and very likeable. They got along well, despite the nearly twenty five years between them, and disagreed only on the subjects of focus in the meetings, which concerned among other things, troop from the fiefdoms around Gondor. Like the other fiefs Dol Amroth too had requirements of its own, situated not far from the disputed territory of South Gondor, and closer as it was to the land of Harad. 

They became good friends, and it was not soon before both knew deep within that they would be more than just friends.

When they parted that year, it was as more than friends that they did so, with a solemn promise to meet again, soon.

***********

Dol Amroth, T.A. 2976 

When he had travelled down to Dol Amroth this summer on his father's request, on the second day of his visit, Denethor was taken down to the docks by Adrahil's daughter Finduilas. She was quiet but just as sharp-witted and intelligent as her brother, and in fact, reminded him greatly of the young man. Imrahil had been away at sea when he had arrived but was to arrive that day.

Denethor had seen the sea often before, but it had never seemed so entrancing as it did then, providing the perfect backdrop to the breathtaking sight of young Imrahil standing at the deck of his ship as she slowly floated into her quay. He stood tall and proud, his cloak wound around him, held in place by a brooch that shone in the midmorning sun. Even from where he stood, Denethor could infer it was shaped like a swan. His long, grey cloak billowed behind him, sweeping away from the perfectly sculpted frame. A stiff sea breeze played through his hair, sending the strands flying away from his face, revealing fine features and eyes as grey as the water. His mouth was a pale glistening pink just like the pieces of coral that the women of Dol Amroth adorned themselves with. 

To Denethor he seemed as one with the sea behind. 

His perception was only enhanced upon experience. The attraction was mutual, and they acted upon it soon. His lover was beautiful. As much so as that vast sea that lapped incessantly below the windows of his room. And like the blue-grey expanse, he was calm on the surface, but the grey eyes revealed the tempestuousness hiding away inside, that would roar out and sweep Denethor in an all encompassing passion.

All this he thought of that late afternoon, as he sat with Imrahil in the peaceful little cove the young prince had shown him. They were supposed to be discussing the history of the trading agreements Gondor had had with Umbar. It had taken barely minutes of discussion. They had other matters to attend to.

And as he watched the sea, he wondered of the other matters that they yet had to talk over. Matters that his father had broached to him two nights ago when he too had arrived in Dol Amorth.

"Dol Amroth is of importance to us," Ecthelion had said without preamble, "They are our farthest fiefdom, and their knights an asset. I would like them to remain so."

He expected that would imply another visit to the seaside fiefdom and waited to hear his father out.

"I wish you to marry Adrahil's daughter. It shall be a formidable liaison, a sign to all of times to come."

He heard a voice of protest and then realised it was his own. His father responded sharply, and though the words reached his ears and he knew he answered but the words eluded his memory later.

He could fathom a guess as to what they had been though. He needed to marry. He needed an heir. Galador's line was an old and noble one. Finduilas, Adrahil's daughter was one of the most eligible young women in the land, fair of face and intelligent. And among all the fiefdoms, Dol Amroth had the largest complement of knights and they were known to be the best.

It was obvious that, politically, there could be no better match for the heir to the man who ruled Gondor in all but name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien

Part 3 Dol Amroth, T.A. 2976 

Ecthelion's heir was said to be a cold and practical young man, a ruthless politician and a calculating warrior. It was said by the more realistic that he would make a good Steward for Gondor in these times when strife seemed a common occurrence. In such times practicality ruled, and matters of the mind ever superseded matters of the heart, even more so when those involved were those that dictated the future of the land.

He was also a handsome man, descended from a noble line. A man of fine bearing and intelligence, albeit with a tendency to scorn rather than sympathise. With Finduilas, he was polite and well-mannered as one who sought a lady's hand in marriage would be.

With Imrahil, he spoke naught that evening.

They had spoken all they had to the evening before standing on the lonely ramparts of his father's castle, after their return from the little hidden cove that they oft frequented. Denethor had told him of all that was transpiring.

"Do you love her?" he regretted the impetuosity behind the words, but they had been said and he could do nothing but await a reply. He was not sure what he wanted to hear.

Denethor looked at him quietly, "I have but met her a short while."

"But long enough to decide her worthy to be your wife, My Lord," his voice was even, and he was surprised to find it took him little effort to speak so.

"She would ever be worthy to be wife. A man would be fortunate to have her by his side," the Steward's voice too was even.

"And where she hails from matters naught?"

"Your meaning eludes me, Prince Imrahil."

"It matters not at all that your betrothed hails from Dol Amroth, My Lord? That her presence by your side is a show of strength like no other? The Steward calls for aid, and the Swan Knights answer immediately!"

"I was under the impression that the Swan Knights would ever aid us in our time of need, My Prince. It takes no marriage to ensure that, does it?"

He turned away, feeling strangely empty. He was not angry. And that concerned him. He should have been, but he was not. He felt instead coldly practical. Denethor needed heirs, he needed heirs. They needed wives to provide those heirs.

And yet, it felt as a cruel trick that the one to provide Denethor his heirs was to be the sister he loved so.

"We are brothers now," he said heavily.

"Yes," Denethor said simply.

"And once we were lovers," he continued quietly.

Denethor said nothing.

"We must forget that," it was half statement, half question and he found himself waiting anxiously to hear the response.

Denethor turned to him, "We must forget that," he said quietly.

***********

Minas Tirith, March 13, T.A. 3019 

Forty-three years gone by, and yet he remembered that face as clearly as though it had been the day before. 

Until his father's death nine years ago, he had preferred to alternate his duties between the sea and the land. The Steward had never visited Dol Amroth but for once in all these years. In forty-three years, they had met just that once – when Denethor had visited Dol Amroth after Finduilas had died. His grief had been as intense as Imrahil's. He had introduced Denethor to his wife, and his heir, little Elphir.

Over the years, he had seen his nephews oft, young, brave men, as riddled with care as all of them were, for these years had been hard on the realm. 

They had all aged. Denethor had aged too, so greatly. He had acknowledged his arrival, four day earlier, murmuring something about how the Swan Knights could help augment the rearguard. It was clear that he was weary. But underneath the lines, and the tiredness, still remained the face Imrahil remembered.

And when those dulled eyes did light up in the Council early that morning, two days ago, they glinted, hardened and bitter, where once they would have gleamed proud. They scorned the younger son who was all that was left of the Steward's family, and an unaccountably saddened Imrahil knew that that man of forty-three years ago had gone. He would have gone, no matter what. The times had been such.

They spoke no more than required. Denethor was as one who had lost all hope. Then the battle caught up with them. And when Imrahil returned to the Steward, it was with Faramir in his arms, a still unmoving Faramir. 

He left father and son together, after recounting the young one's brave deeds not without ire at the scene he had witnessed between them earlier. When Denethor spoke, it was not words of justification.

***********

_Minas Tirith, March 15, T.A. 3019_

He remembered the words as he left Faramir, sleeping peacefully now that the King had healed him.

"I thank you for all you have done," the words sounded formal, yet the tone spoke much more.

"You have always had all of me that you desire. You had but to ask."

"I could not."

"I know."

"It was not to be."

"No."

He had left him by Faramir's side, and then found himself enmeshed in the task of aiding Mithrandir in commanding what was left of the city's defence. 

_***********_

_Dol Amroth, T.A. 2976_

*We must forget*

The words seem to echo mockingly in his ears, for he knew they were wise words.

"I do not know if I can."

"It cannot to be."

"No. . . but . . . I must know. Did you -  did you – what did this mean – I –," he could not say the words. He could not get himself to ask whether Denethor had ever loved him in those days they spent together.

"It is best we speak of this no more," Denethor said quietly, and Imrahil knew he had understood what he meant to ask.

A part of him was relieved that Denethor had not answered his question. He would not have been able to cope with either answer.

"The sea is beautiful tonight," he said.

"Is it? I have not looked."

He paused at the door, and turning his head just a little said, "You will see her happy I know."

"She shall have no cause for concern."

The waves crashed against the walls down below. He slept little that night. The seas were rough that night.

_***********_

He had never been able to forget. The memory remained - as it had done for Denethor. It lay ignored, but it lay - unforgotten.

The end


End file.
